Wendy Morton

Love Isn't

thunder and cinnamon.
Is: walls the colour of Provence;
seagulls framed in the skylight,
between clouds and the morning moon;
hoya trailing night perfume;
a level floor;
a new sink;
your hands.

David's trees

You show me the perfect drawing
of a broken tree branch
still blooming,
you drew last spring;
then the Sudek photographs of cherry trees.
Later, your collection: framed splinters
from a Zeppelin;
a piece of Winchester Cathedral,
from 1079;
an Inuit snow scraper;
your daughters' paintings;
a box filled with the small bones
of birds and blue stones.

Nearby, your luminous wife
plays Telleman on the Steinway,
wearing her best sadness and blue shoes.

Later, she'll decorate
a cake for your birthday,
play for you.
And for a while,
your world will be perfect:
a tree branch blooming in June,
white blossoms falling everywhere
like love.

Poeta canadiana. Nas palavras de outro poeta — Patrick Lane — desse país: “Wendy Morton’s poetry always surprises. It embraces both humour and grief with equal measure. It pays attention to thunder and cinnamon, bread and tutus, and by so doing expresses our human world with grace and joy.”